How To Break A Heart
by the music our collisions make
Summary: Astoria swears that she won't let anyone too close. But what happens when she finally does?


_For the Delirium Competition on HPFC_

_Write in second person and use the prompts: glass, twist, fall, beautiful disaster, "Hearts are fragile things. That's why you have to be so careful."_

* * *

Your first impression of Draco Malfoy is not a good one to say the very least.

Your first impression of Draco Malfoy is that he is the kind of boy who makes your sister, Daphne, cry. She crawls into your four poster bed in the third year dorms and you listen to how Pansy Parkinson won't shut the hell up about him, and the way he sweet talked her, made her believe she was more than just a pretty face.

You hold her gently, stroking her dark hair, let her tears soak your pillow. It's a shame because she_ is_ a pretty face. Always has been. She's a porcelain doll, dainty and graceful, a life sized version of the little glass ballerina hidden in your music box. It's childish, but that's the way you've always thought of Daphne.

And perhaps you are wrong, but you cannot help but look at her now with her broken heart bleeding all over your sheets long after the torches have gone out for the night, and think that she is too delicate, too perfect to last. This is where the ballerina twists, turns her ankle and falls, and you are left to clean up the pieces while she tries to convince you that it's all worth it.

"You'll love someone, too, Astoria. One day you will and you'll understand."

She sniffles herself to sleep, her head pressed against your chest, and the next morning you make sure to shoot Draco Malfoy the darkest looks you can muster. You watch him saunter off with the Parkinson girl fawning after him and you think to yourself that no, you'll never understand.

And you don't want to.

* * *

The sheets tangle about your legs as you fall into bed, Blaise's hands working at your robes, not for the first time, and you doubt it will be the last.

He doesn't kiss you on the mouth and you don't let him. He leaves his mark on your neck, your shoulder, on the swell of your breast, ensuring that everyone knows where he's been. His teeth graze at your skin while your nails drag across his back, and this is anything but delicate. You are both harsh exteriors, embracing skin-deep affairs and cigarettes and defying expectations. You are hearts locked up without keys to open them, and that's just fine.

"A Zabini has no need for hearts," he says. "They get you into all sorts of trouble."

His fingers trail along your stomach, tracing invisible patterns on your skin until the sun disappears and it's time for him to be going because staying the night is just one more thing he doesn't ever do.

He walks your floor with ease, not needing the guidance of a light. He is practiced in the art of leaving and that is what you like about him.

Predictable. Deliciously predictable.

* * *

You parade him on your arm at Daphne's wedding. Your sister doesn't exactly approve but neither of you mention it. It's her day and there's no sense in arguing.

She looks angelic as always, the pretty face of the family still so elegant and refined, so you do your best to give a toast that is worthy of her, because in spite of everything, in spite of the cynicism growing wild like twisted vines and tangling about your ribs, all you've ever wanted was for her to be happy.

When you tell Blaise this, he only nods. He doesn't bother to give it more thought than that. He's been to his share of weddings, and to him, marriage is meant to be short-lived.

* * *

It's an October evening when Blaise adjusts his tie about his neck, tells you he's off to the States and maybe he'll be back and if you're ever in New York to look him up. He drinks the last of your coffee before leaving like you knew he would. You predicted it, and there's a sense of self righteousness about knowing how things would go.

But you can't help but admit that walking about town alone is a lonely feeling, so you go to the bar to drown it.

* * *

It's months later, and years after that fateful first impression, that Draco Malfoy walks back into your life.

You see him for the first time in months on the street, and there is something missing. He's lost his trademark saunter, that boyish confidence you used to hate so much. It is replaced with hunched shoulders and a clenched jaw, looking you square in the eye and daring you to say something to him. Anything.

It's a funny thing then, that he looks taken aback when you _do_ speak to him, when you ask him how he is, when you offer to walk with him a ways. You watch him fumble uncomfortably over small talk and clutching absentmindedly at his left sleeve.

He is quick to brush you off at the corner but he can't get rid of you that easily - not as easily as Daphne, anyway- and it doesn't take long for him to accept it, to accept that this is his life now where things happen _to _him and he doesn't have a say in the matter. And perhaps this is why you are drawn to him. Perhaps it is because you know how he feels.

In any case, he is a beautiful disaster of a boy. He's seen too much and doesn't sleep enough these days, and when he kisses you one night at the bar you let him. He pushes his drink aside and tangles trembling fingers through your hair, but you don't stop him like you know deep down you should.

It's not until later that you realize: you should have stopped him.

Because all your careful planning, all those years of holding boys at arm's length have brought you here. Your flat is quiet and cold, but you can't bring yourself to get up and close the window so you curl up into his embrace. You listen to his quiet breathing and then his whispered apology.

"I'm a Malfoy and I'm sorry."

You kiss his lips again, too far gone to go back now. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last, and it is certainly not anything like love, but falling in love is not the only way to break a heart.

You know that now.


End file.
